For The Weary
by Fair-Ithil
Summary: He is tired of being the honorable man...Not all wounds are battered flesh and blood. PostDMC


**Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.**

**A/N: **Yeah there are some DMC spoilers in her. No there is little to no JackElizabeth because no amount of love for Jack Sparrow can ever make me do that. There is however some, okay a lot, Will angst. Set directly after DMC. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

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He is tired.

It has been a long day—the first in what he fears will be an unending series of long days that are yet to come—and he is tired.

His body aches and his bones protest every movement, threatening to give way beneath his battered flesh as he makes his way on one the dim lit walkways that run the river bank in Tia Dalma's bayou; towards one of the numerous huts that has been assigned to him. The bayou croaks and hums and _persists_ around him, keeping him company even after he has crossed the threshold into his borrowed shelter where he has been ordered to rest away what is left of the night.

There are a few candles scattered around inside the small space, which smells of something like dry dirt and damp vegetation, just as everything else does within this place. It does however lack the more potent aromas of Tia Dalma's hut and for that he can be grateful (he is not sure he could stomach the combining scent of incense and rum a moment longer than he already has). Besides the candles there is little. There is a threadbare mattress in one corner raised barely off the ground (and while he would have been content with a night on solid ground he cannot deny his relief at the sight of a real bed, or as close to one as he has seen in some time). Besides the bed there is a battered table that has seen better days, upon which there rests a basin of sweet smelling water that is warm to the touch, a jar of salve which feels cool against his fingers, and a neat pile of crudely cut bandages.

He fights back a wry smile; Tia Dalma clearly knew more than she ever let on.

His fingers fumble as he begins the task of undressing, a task that has never felt nearly half as difficult as it does now. His back burns and his skin screams out in agony as he peels away fabric and blood and everything that is in between the two.

His head spins and for a moment he is afraid that the floor will give out beneath his feet, but it sets itself straight again and he continues with the task at hand.

He begins slowly, finding all the dull throbbing aches that litter his body—his leg where Norrington's blade struck true, the wound at the side of his head from one of Davy Jones' crew, the tender spot where Jack took an oar to his skull.

Through it all he is meticulous, paying heed to his actions and nothing else. He was too tired to think at the moment, or at least he wishes to be, but he must see this through before rest can be obtained—if it is to be obtained at all.

And when at last all the small wounds and abrasions have been dealt with he is left with only the most painful of his injuries (one that he is entirely sure no salve or ointment will ever entirely sooth).

His attempts are awkward and he cruses himself for the thousandth time since that rainy day back at Port Royal, a day that had promised the beginning of his new life at her side and now seems like something completely derived from fantasy.

'Fool,' he thinks bitterly throwing down the cloth he held in his hand, ignoring the slop of water that spills over the basin's lip. Bitterness and anger and grief swell within the cage of his chest, cutting through the pain, however briefly, 'That is all you have ever been Will Turner. It's all you'll ever be.' The image blazes across his mind's eye and he forces himself to look away.

'Will?'

Her voice is hoarse in the dim bayou lights and her footsteps are light as she makes her way towards him. He does not turn towards her, eyes decidedly fixed on the basin of bloodied water.

'Will, I—Oh, Will,' she stops, not an arms width behind him, and he can practically feel the heat that radiates from her. Still he flinches at the touch of her fingertip, soft as ever, against the skin of his back. 'What happened?' Her breath is warm against his shoulder, makes his skin pucker and shiver, a hair line crack forming in his resolve at the feeling of her eyes boring into his neck, following the bloodied lines that cover his back.

'A gift from Jones.' He answers, surprised by the how easily the lie slips past his lips, surprised by his own primal desire to keep his father's actions away from her judgment.

He fights the shudder that tears through him at the feel of her lips, rough and sun scorched and so unlike the rest of her, against his shoulder, first one then the other, then at the base of his neck. Her hands whisper down his sides and he fights to stay still. She doesn't say a word when she reaches around to the table before him, hands reaching blindly for the clothe he previously held.

She cares for him then, applying the salve to his burning skin, unaware that her touch burns worst than any injury.

'Will,' she whispers, and her hand stills momentarily, her breathing ragged before she manages to control it, her hands moving once more though there is an unsteadiness behind her touch now that wasn't there before. Something in his chest constricts in anticipation, waiting, half hoping, for a confession, a declaration, something that will calm the turmoil that pitches and seizes beneath his skin. 'I love you.' Her voice wobbles, and his fist tighten at his sides, his eyes stinging with exhaustion and grief (over what, he cannot specify). 'I wanted to tell you, back on the Pearl, I tried.' She pauses and he strains his ears to understand her next words. 'I was afraid. I thought that—I didn't want to die without telling you.'

There is silence then and blood rushes to his head and his body can no longer support the weight of it all. He slumps forward, away from her hands, her breath, away from _her_. The words do little to comfort him, and wishes he had the strength of will to wish her away from him, if only for a moment.

'I thought I wanted to marry you.' She says, and he can feel his bones tremble at the impact of her words. She reaches out to him, hand on his shoulder, firm and leading, he has no will to stop her.

He looks at her for the first time since their decision was reached in Tia Dalma's hut, sees the circles under her eyes, the shadows that twist over her features meeting with the rich golden candle light that flickers in the room. Her hair is a mess of tangles and salt, and her skin is sun drenched. She looks the part of a pirate and he cannot stop himself from thinking her beautiful.

He has always thought her beautiful.

He fears the truth is he always will.

It is this thought he holds when she kisses him, sun scorched hands and surprisingly rough palms against the sides of his face, mouth fierce and demanding.

'I thought I wanted to marry you, Will, I thought it was the only way we could be together.' She kisses him again and he wants to ignore the taste of rum and salt water and sunlight, wants to remember instead the hard taste of liquor and sweat that marked the stolen kisses of their sparring ring. She pulls away again, hands still framing his face, fingers trailing into his hair, her eyes, half veiled in shadows looking up at him with a look he does not have the strength to decipher.

'It doesn't matter anymore.' She whispers, 'none of it matters.'

He cannot argue.

'If you'll have me, Will Turner.' She says, so close that he feels the words more than he hears them.

His movements are sluggishly slow, and his hands are loose where they rest at her waist. The image flashes in his mind and he wishes to shut it out. Wishes to think only of her beauty and the taste of memory and the sound of her words in the still night, wants only to forget what lays before them, of what has been lost (of trust that will never be regained no matter how long the years run).

He is tired.

His body aches and his bones protest and all around them the bayou hums with life even while they mourn.

It has been a long day, the first in what will be an unforeseeable series of long days that will lead them to the world's end (if they will lead them back, he has no way of knowing).

It is this thought he holds when he kisses her, blotting the sight of _them_ away, thinking only of the persistent ache that he is not sure will ever leave his body, of the feel of her warmth sinking into him (and still he feels no warmth).

He does not think when his fingers trace the hem of her shirt, when his lips fall against sun drenched skin he has rarely seen and never tasted.

Coarse cloth falls away at blacksmith hands and he travels the expanse of her back, smooth skin that shudders and trembles beneath him. He does not want to think that she is here so that he might burn away what is left of Jack Sparrow, does not want to think she wants it as terribly as he needs to. So he kisses her, ignoring the voice within his mind that argues this is wrong, the voice that insists this will fix nothing and ruin things all the worse. He does not heed it.

He is tired of being the honorable man.

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**End**

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**Feedback is Love**


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